


Shadow Tag

by climaxitis (orphan_account)



Category: Ginga Eiyuu Densetsu | Legend of the Galactic Heroes
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 08:26:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5778466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/climaxitis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This girl might be the most unfortunate of all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadow Tag

He reaches for her wrist first because it's the closest and he needs to disarm her, which he succeeds in with a predictable lack of effort. He actually sees her a second before she makes her ambush; the path outside the mansion is dimly lit, but she disguises herself very poorly, so it's not difficult to figure out how she got in, from which way, and the multitude of gross security oversights that must have been present under his knowledge to allow such a chance to be presented to her at all. In the morning he thinks he'll be able to see her footsteps better.

She puts up too weak of a fight to be ideal, though that's probably for the best. It's not for a lack of trying, so there's credit for her. Her face turns up a probable blank in his memory, but he recognizes grudge when he sees it dripping from the scowl she bares him by way of greeting, jaw taut and unmistakable fear flickering beneath the hardness of her gaze when he forces it to meet his. Women are deceivers, but this one hasn't graduated from girlhood, yet. He could be wrong. In the right angle, she could be either.

Her clothes tear easily enough; without them, she looks as young and vulnerable as he supposes any woman would, though that vile glare betrays her. He’s doubtful, but maybe next time she won’t look as tense. It's an inopportune assumption to make, but as much as it looks out of place on her pretty, flushed face, he thinks he'll have trouble imagining her looking at him any other way.

* * *

She gives the dresses a twice-over before finally picking one out. The first, a straightforward glance; the second, she backs away from immediately, looking almost as if she's shrinking. He can't see her face from where he's standing. It could have as much been the room's darkness as it could her own willingness to play the part of the meek defenseless girl, but it's not his privilege to know. She only reveals the truth of her own cowardice in the privacy of dusty furniture and locked-up heirlooms. Predictable.

The dress she chooses is made for winter, high-collared and long-sleeved. It suits her. Let completely down, her hair falls to reach her waist. Looking at her figure from behind makes it easy to mistake her as some other woman, but she's one who would refuse to forgive him all the same, so it shouldn't be as alarming as it is. The things that separate them the most all come down to fate: family, luck, and love. All things considered, this girl might be the most unfortunate of all.

* * *

She drinks little and most of the time refuses to eat. It isn't so much a problem for him, but her body is small enough as is; even in the closeness of embrace, it sometimes feels as if she's not there, though the pulse under her small wrist remains as constant as ever. He's taken to kick her out of the room more often than not, these days, so he wouldn't know if it gets better with time.

Once, he forgets, and she very intentionally doesn't remind him. It's okay for several hours and he thinks he's going to live, until he realizes where he's leaning his face against. He hadn't meant to, but her back hits the cold floor first and the lamp she throws on the way out the door misses his head by a large margin by virtue of her horrendous aim. The bulb smashes spectacularly against the wall behind him and the glass pieces will take hours to get out of the hardwood floor, but that's not what he's worried about.

* * *

She's always gentle with her hands, a wholly mundane trait no doubt doubling as what little remains of her sheltered upbringing and former family prestige. It's clear she can't help it, no matter how she tries almost endearingly hard to prove otherwise. Scratches heal quickly, and he only has a few to her credit.

It's in moments like these that she looks anything like the wholesome aristocratic girl she's supposed to be. She was bred and raised to fill the role, so given the right time and circumstance, it's no surprise she's able to slip into it with ease. Her back doesn't slouch when she reluctantly takes her sugary morning tea and she glances out the window every so often, her lips pressed together as if about to comment on the weather before stopping herself. She still restricts herself to winter dresses, but summer is almost at its end, and it affords her a miniscule amount of comfort.

The tea is boiling hot, so she sets the cup back down onto its saucer, an inconspicuously dainty gesture. Ms. Mittermeyer's fingers are more slender, and he doubts her husband ever notices, but they're not completely unscathed, owing to the woman she is.

Only momentarily does he think this is unfortunate. Those hands could've belonged to a maiden; someone's lover, someone's wife, someone who could've tricked a man into being happy. She could've been any of those things, if not for a ruined family and a criminal record worthy of the death penalty. Unfortunate, truly, but he neither nurses regrets nor guilt and he has none especially for her. She's had her chance and declined it; no matter what she claims her motives to be, in the end, doesn't it say as much about her for choosing to stay as it does him for letting her?


End file.
